


Entrance to an Amphitheatre

by EzraBlake



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Blow Jobs, Deepthroating, Dissociation, Dubious Consent, Emetophilia, Food Kink, M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Seriously this is NASTY, Vomiting, disgusting, emetophagia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 20:05:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14119782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EzraBlake/pseuds/EzraBlake
Summary: Suddenly, their arrangement is more than just a scandalous reprieve from the stress of living life without a rule book. It’s a battle of wills. For Hannibal, at least, it’s an exercise in superlatives. What wouldn’t Will do at his behest?Would he dothat?





	Entrance to an Amphitheatre

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: THIS IS REVOLTING. Do not read this fic if you have a weak stomach. Do not read this fic if you are eating. Do not read this fic at school or work.
> 
> You’ve been warned.
> 
> I also write original fiction. You can find me on Goodreads or on my website.

Will celebrates one anniversary, and that is the anniversary of his father’s death. He can’t drive all the way to South Carolina every year, so on June 10th, he sits in his rocking chair on the porch and raises a toast of special occasion whisky. He’s replaced the bottle only once since his father died. This is his only occasion.

Today is an anniversary, though not one important enough to warrant celebration, in his opinion. It marks six months since their tipping point, when Hannibal stopped him mid-sentence and said, “You cling so tightly to yourself, Will. You can’t get far enough away to see your undistorted reflection.”

An interruption is so rare, so _rude_ , that whatever Will was saying is eclipsed by the shock. He stares at Hannibal for a few seconds as he recalibrates. “If I let go, I’m never going to find my way back to myself.”

“Not even with a guide?”

Will blinks at him.

Hannibal shifts slightly forward in his chair, and he’s startled to find that they’re nearly toe-to-toe. It seems as though the chairs inch together between sessions, so slowly that it’s taken him months to notice. Or maybe he’s going crazy.

“What would it take to convince you to loosen your grip?” Hannibal muses, almost to himself.

“I won’t be convinced. Don’t bother.”

“You would be surprised how many therapeutic techniques are built around relinquishing control. Acceptance and Commitment. The ten step program.”

Will snorts. “Yeah, I know.”

He cocks his head. “Should I stop serving you wine with dinner, Will?”

“That was years ago,” he says. “I’m teaching now. Intermittently.”

“And drinking intermittently.” It’s not a question, and Will doesn’t answer. “I’d like to propose an experiment this week, for your benefit, but also to satisfy my own curiosity. Don’t drink until our next session.”

“I just told you I went to a meeting. Do you think I’d set foot in a community center if I could just _not_ drink?”

“Of course not,” says Hannibal.

“So how does this meet any definition of the word ‘experiment?’ Why would it work this time?”

Hannibal leans back in his chair and relaxes into his own self-assurance. “Because this time, I’m asking you to do it.”

A sharp laugh bubbles from Will’s throat. “It’s not that I don’t value your opinion, Doctor, but I can tell you’ve never been addicted to anything.” He shakes his head. “What happens if I can’t?”

“Nothing,” says Hannibal.

“There you go. Of course I’d _like_ to stop.”

“Do not mistake this for professional advice from your psychiatrist. It’s only a polite request, from a friend,” Hannibal says. “You’ll do it because you want nothing more in the world than to please me.”

The mechanical cooking timer on Hannibal’s desk dings once, and Will all but springs from his seat. “I can’t stay for dinner tonight,” he says. “I have to grade papers.”

“We’ll take a rain check, in that case,” Hannibal says mildly. “Until next week.”

“Yeah.”

He’s out the door and in his car in record time. He peels out of Hannibal’s driveway, turns onto the road, and pulls over at the first liquor store he sees. His mind is utterly blank as he purchases a single bottle for the same price Hannibal charges his insurance company per session. It rolls around the passenger footwell on the hour-long drive to Wolf Trap. 

When he gets home, he’s going to drink at least half of it, because he wants nothing more in the world than to prove Hannibal wrong.

The next week, he brings the unopened bottle to his appointment.

“I didn’t take you for a connoisseur,” Hannibal says, turning it over in his hands.

“I’m not. It’s for you.”

“I think it’s for both of us,” he says. “To celebrate.”

Hannibal pours their drinks, and as he passes Will the tumblr, his other hand closes around Will’s wrist. Their eyes meet.

“I’m very proud of you,” Hannibal says. He releases Will’s wrist and raises his glass. “To recovery.”

And Will realizes, too late, that his grip has been loosened.

Six months later, Will is wearing a bespoke three-piece suit and carrying his father’s precious top-shelf whiskey, and he hasn’t touched a drop since their toast. All because Hannibal asked.

It’s not the only thing he’s done simply because Hannibal asked. In six months, he’s grown accustomed to kneeling at Hannibal’s feet while he works, to spending hours polishing his dishes to a mirror sheen, to eating cranberries and roasted almonds from the palm of his hand. He has also accepted the fact that Hannibal will never kiss him, and that he’ll never be permitted to see Hannibal completely naked.

Will is heterosexual, essentially, so that’s just as well.

And when he sucks Hannibal’s cock through the zipper of his dress pants, he hates it every single time. He hates the taste, and the weight, and his own sensitive gag reflex—but he does it because Hannibal asks him to, and nothing has ever felt better than those moments, when he can safely discard his own autonomy like a used napkin. 

How Hannibal knew, he still has no idea. Perhaps it was a lucky guess.

Three sharp knocks on his door. He never uses the knocker; he doesn’t like its gaudy indiscretion. Hannibal’s nearest neighbor is too far to reasonably fear, but Will’s fears are rarely reasonable, and he’d prefer nobody know just how often they dine together.

Hannibal welcomes him with one arm outstretched, a ritual they’ve perfected over the course of a hundred repetitions. This time, he’s wearing his best suit: a step below the tuxedo, but it’s a very small step.

“Come in,” he says. “Dinner is almost ready.”

“I offered to help you cook,” says Will, stepping into the foyer. He wipes his shoes on the soft-bristled mat, careful to get every last speck of grime off the soles. He’ll be responsible for beating the mat. If he’s lucky, he might be asked to clean Hannibal’s shoes as well.

“I wanted tonight’s dish to be a surprise. It’s not something I can afford to prepare often.”

Will grimaces. “I’ve seen you make lobster bisque and white truffle pasta in the same week. Shudder to think what you’d consider an indulgence.”

“You’ll see,” says Hannibal.

He takes the bottle and sets it on the foyer table, and guides Will to the study with a hand on the small of his back. They won’t be drinking it tonight. This year, he’ll have to find another way to honor his father’s memory.

“I hope you haven’t eaten.”

“Not since breakfast,” Will says, without thinking.

“Breakfast?”

“Just the corner of my toast. I did it before I got your text. I spit the next bite out, I swear.”

Hannibal chuckles. “I hate waste, but you had pure intentions. Nothing since then?”

“Water and black coffee, like you said.”

“Good.”

The lone syllable sets heat pooling in Will’s stomach.

“How are you feeling?”

“A little dizzy,” he admits. “Are you going to tell me why I wasn’t allowed to eat?”

“You’re allowed to do anything you want, Will. I only make suggestions. Whether or not you follow them will always be your choice—and if you choose not to, I promise no more suggestions will be forthcoming.”

He interprets that as the threat it was intended to be, always in the subtext, rarely brought so blatantly to light.

“Right,” Will says. “I meant to ask why you suggested I fast until dinner.”

“It will become apparent,” says Hannibal. “In the meantime, I suggest you align the bookshelf. I’d like them set back exactly an inch and a half from edge. You’ll find a ruler in the stationary drawer of my desk. Shall I fetch you when dinner is ready?”

“Yes,” he says. “Thank you.” 

They’ve been doing this long enough that he knows he’s not thanking Hannibal for calling him to dinner. He’s thanking him for his continued directions, for the privilege of arranging his bookshelf, and especially for his tact. Will does not take orders from his partners. He can agree to suggestions.

He aligns the books with single-minded precision. Nothing else impinges on his experience. Even at his most focused, the mental clarity of performing for Hannibal is unrivaled.

He’s called for dinner before he’s finished the last shelf, but it doesn’t matter whether or not Hannibal’s books are set back exactly an inch and a half—that’s not the point of the exercise. He’d go so far as to say the point is that it doesn’t need to be done at all.

Before he crosses the threshold to the dining room, Hannibal catches him with another gentle suggestion. “Close your eyes, please.”

Will does. Dinner is another ritual, burned permanently into his neural pathways, and he makes it to his usual chair without so much as brushing the tablecloth.

“Smells delicious,” he says, inhaling the heady blend of flesh and spices. “Not…chicken, is it?”

“Very astute.” There’s a smile in Hannibal’s voice. Will hears his smile far more often than he sees it.

“Oh,” Will says. Plenty of things smell like chicken. He wasn’t expecting to get it right. “If you don’t mind my asking, how much can a chicken possibly cost?”

“Six hundred dollars,” Hannibal says mildly. “I could have gotten it cheaper frozen, but I wanted to slaughter it myself.”

Will’s eyes snap open. He can’t help himself. “Six _hundred?_ ”

“I never asked you to open your eyes,” Hannibal says, withdrawing the steaming dish from Will’s line of vision. It could hardly be called a reprimand, but it nonetheless makes him sick with guilt. He squeezes them shut again.

“Sorry. That caught me off guard.”

“Apology accepted. Please don’t let it happen again.” He sets their plates on the table. Warm, sweet steam bathes his face. “It’s a rare breed,” he says. “Take a moment to appreciate the scent.”

“Garlic,” Will says after a moment. “Rosemary. Truffle oil. Wine?”

“A light Zinfandel,” Hannibal says. “Well done; that’s the entire marinade. I wanted to let the meat speak for itself. Would you like to hazard a guess as to the vegetables?”

He furrows his brow. He doesn’t have Hannibal’s nose, and after a few seconds, he acclimates to the smell and can no longer pick apart its components. “I have no idea.”

“Hop shoots and white asparagus,” he says. “You can open your eyes, if you like.”

Will does. He looks down at the generous portion, a literal tapestry of white and green shoots blanketing something black: far from burnt, it’s the silky texture of stepping into the cold after a hot bath. Gooseflesh, or rather—

“This can’t be the chicken,” he says, carefully lifting the woven vegetables to peer underneath.

“Ayam Cemani,” Hannibal says. “A rare bird bred in Indonesia for its fibromelanosis—a hyperpigmentation, rather the opposite of albinism. They’re entirely black. Even the organs.”

“It’s beautiful,” Will says. Though looking at the dish might be enough to sate him, he cuts into the onyx-black flesh and raises a bite to his lips, watching Hannibal watch him.

“Does it taste like chicken?”

Will swallows, and lets the aftertaste linger on his tongue. “Not like any chicken I’ve ever eaten. Definitely more tender. Earthier.”

“Is the marinade too overwhelming?”

He shakes his head. “Hannibal, you know it isn’t.”

Hannibal smiles. “Yes, I know,” he says. “I’ll stop; I just wanted to hear you say it. I promise I won’t interrogate you over this meal.”

“Thanks,” Will says, only slightly facetious. “I couldn’t ask for a better anniversary present.”

“Is it our anniversary?”

He sets down his fork, unsure whether or not he’s being played. “This…isn’t that what this is about? Six months ago, we first—uh, you asked me to stop drinking.”

Hannibal’s lips twitch. “I don’t usually celebrate halves, but I stumbled upon the Ayam Cemani, and I needed an excuse. I never mentioned the date to you. I’m surprised you remember.”

Will’s face flushes. “I just…it’s a big deal, y’know. Quitting the booze.”

“Of course,” says Hannibal. Then, “I’d like to eat first and talk afterward, if you don’t mind. I’m sure you’re starving.”

He nods and sets to work unstitching the vegetables with his fork. 

“Slowly,” Hannibal adds. “If I were you, I’d chew everything to a paste. For six hundred dollars, I don’t mind if it takes us until midnight to finish.”

Will gives him a cursory chuckle, but he slows his pace.

Nearly an hour later, once Will has finished two-thirds of his meal, he says, “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you I’m uncomfortable putting anything this expensive in my mouth.”

“And yet you’ve told me.”

He mulls that over for a second. “I’d consider it rude not to protest.”

“Is your conscience sated for the moment?”

“Yes,” Will decides. “Thank you for indulging me.”

“Thank you for the same,” says Hannibal. He glances at Will’s plate. “I notice you’re talking. Are you finished?”

“I’m stuffed,” he says. “Did you give us each half the chicken?”

“I froze the blood and organs, but you have half the meat, yes. Please finish it,” he says. “For my sake.”

Will raises his eyebrows and shuts his mouth, cuts the rest of his chicken into tiny pieces to give himself time to digest. Once it’s shredded, he has no choice but to eat—or he does, technically, but Hannibal asked, and his other option is to end their arrangement. So he eats.

By the time he’s cleaned his plate, he feels more than a little bloated, and water isn’t helping. He absently rubs his stomach.

Hannibal stands and whisks away the plate. Will pushes his chair out from the table, but Hannibal anchors him in place with a look.

“Dessert,” he says. “Saffron panna cotta with gold leaf.”

He restrains a groan of disgust as the second course graces the table. An enormous bowl, bigger than his first plate, with a generous helping of glimmering custard in the center. 

“Could we wait, maybe?”

“My timeframe for refrigeration is very specific,” Hannibal says. “Any longer and we jeopardize the texture.”

“Can we trade, at least? My portion is bigger.”

“No thank you,” Hannibal says. “You’re the guest.”

Will doesn’t know what to say to that, so he takes a bite. And another, and a third, each spaced further from the last. Past a certain point, swallowing doesn’t seem to move the food to his stomach—it just piles on top of itself, making him sick. It would probably be delicious if it was the only course, but Will can’t muster a compliment. Forcing it down requires all of his attention.

At last, he scrapes the final bite into his mouth and drops his fork. Hannibal has never asked him to stuff himself like this. He’s never even faulted him for a few unfinished bites. Why tonight?

Hannibal is finished with his more moderately sized portion, and he clears the plates while Will clutches his stomach. “Shall we retire to the study?” He asks.

“Sure,” says Will. He feels like he’s gained twenty pounds in the last hour.

Hannibal doesn’t take Will’s plate to the kitchen. He leaves the fork in the sink and carries the empty plater like he’s serving afternoon tea, and Will is so baffled that it doesn’t cross his mind to ask what he’s doing. He sets it on the floor in front of the armchair.

Will frowns at him. “Um—”

“Could you sit on the chair, please, facing the back?”

“What?”

“You may drape your legs over the arms. Sit facing the back of the seat.”

He stares at Hannibal for a few moments before awkwardly climbing onto the chair. There’s no room for his legs, but when he drapes them over the sides, his weight pulls him backward so his head and shoulders dangle off the cushion. Hannibal assists the movement with a gentle hand on his forehead.

“What are we doing?” Will asks.

“I’d like to fuck your mouth, if it’s alright with you.”

His blush is made worse by gravity. “You—right now? I just ate, I’m not sure I can—”

“Please don’t concern yourself,” Hannibal says. He taps the underside of Will’s chin. “Open?”

And of course, Will can always refuse. And go home, and get a referral, and make all of his decisions for himself again. He opens his mouth and waits patiently.

For the first time ever, Hannibal strips naked. Whether it’s significant, whether he’s even noticed that he’s never done it before is up for debate, but Will knows it’s the first time, and he wants to avert his eyes almost as much as he wants to stare. Hannibal is lean and well-muscled, obviously goes to the gym, and Will can’t help but feel a little inadequate as he removes his own shirt and tie at Hannibal’s request. But he still does it.

“Could I just ask…”

“Please don’t,” Hannibal says, and lays his hardening cock against Will’s lips. “Slowly.”

Slowly is all he can manage, because being inverted is not helping him digest any faster. The taste of him invokes a characteristic medley of disgust and indignation and maybe the faintest flush of arousal—but if Hannibal didn’t think it was a good idea, he wouldn’t ask. He knows what he’s doing.

Will keeps his lips loose and drags his tongue around the ridge in languid circles, darts into his slit to taste the moisture beading there. As Hannibal hardens, he grows harder to take. Will is about to pull off when the first gentle thrust dips into the back of his throat.

He gags and jerks away. “I can’t, Hannibal.”

“I think you can. I want you to.”

Will’s tight lips part reluctantly to allow the next thrust, deeper and more vicious. Dessert creeps into his mouth. He swallows hard and pulls away.

“You fed me too much.” He can’t look at him. “If you keep doing that…” he trails off, wiping sweat from his brow.

“What will happen?”

“You know what’ll happen,” Will says. He grits his teeth. “I’ll vomit.”

“Hm.”

Then Hannibal’s cock is pressed to his sealed lips. He keeps pressing, gentle but insistent, and Will pulls away.

“Are you listening to me? We can’t do this right now.”

“Ayam Cemani,” Hannibal says.

“Huh?”

“White truffle oil, garlic, rosemary, Zinfandel.” His eyes grow darker with every word. “Panna cotta, saffron, gold leaf, water and black coffee. And a corner of toast. I know exactly what I put into your body. You don’t think I know exactly what will come out?”

Will stares at him, frozen, his hands digging claw marks into the cushion.

“Could you open your mouth, please?”

For a long moment, Will doesn’t move. Hannibal can always find his off switch, and he just cut power to the entire grid. Will has ground to a halt, and he is incapable of having an original thought right now. All he can do is open his mouth.

“Thank you,” Hannibal says, and slips inside. One strong hand cups the bottom of Will’s jaw as he rocks deeper.

Suddenly, their arrangement is more than just a scandalous reprieve from the stress of living life without a rule book. It’s a battle of wills. For Hannibal, at least, it’s an exercise in superlatives. What wouldn’t Will do at his behest?

Would he do _that?_

He won't, of course. It's obscene. How the hell could Hannibal ask him to do something so disgusting, when his entire life revolves around remaining polite and composed? But he doesn’t pull back when Hannibal fucks into his throat, and maybe it’s because he understands. His entire life _is_ polite and composed. How could he appreciate that without the contrast?

Will gurgles, and he can’t swallow fast enough to stop the saffron panna cotta flooding his mouth. It tastes better coming up than it did going down.

Hannibal pulls out and says, “You may spit in the bowl.”

Of course. Planned from the start.

He spits into the bowl and accepts Hannibal’s cock into his throat again. He’s not pulling punches—every thrust is deeper than the last, and he stops to spit every few seconds, face burning, nose running. The room is filled with tortured gagging and the wet sound of flesh against flesh.

“Good,” Hannibal murmurs, fucking the last of the dessert out of him. “I’m sure you’re feeling better already.”

Will is less bloated, but he’s in no position to say so, and he wouldn’t even if he could. The main course comes next, and he thanks God he took Hannibal’s advice and chewed it to a paste. He ate so much that they’re nowhere near bringing up stomach acid.

Once the unprecedented humiliation wanes to a bearable embarrassment, Will participates. He tips his head further back, allowing every part of his throat to be violated. Hannibal stops pulling all the way out. Vomit dribbles down Will’s face and into the bowl, catching in his hair. 

Jesus. He feels inhuman. This isn’t something humans do.

The thought spurs him to choke himself on Hannibal’s cock, because what can be degrading, after this? Is there anywhere to go from here? He stops restraining the the mortifying sounds of Hannibal fucking dinner in and out of his throat. All he has to do is breathe, and keep his mouth open.

“You should see yourself, Will. You’re ruined,” he says. “You look like a crime scene.”

It shouldn’t make him hard. There’s a perennial rumor at the bureau that he jerks off at crime scenes, and he’s considering for the first time that it might be near the mark.

Hannibal senses that he’s almost empty, and he pulls out and wipes his cock on Will’s face.

“Stay,” he says.

It’s not a suggestion, but Will doesn’t move. He steps out of his field of vision.

Will is left gasping, upside-down, occasionally twisting to cough something up into the dish. It’s a revolting sight: white cream and black flesh marbled together with streaks of spit and mucous, the texture and consistency of a smoothie. Just looking makes him gag again.

Hannibal returns with a hand mirror. Will tries to sit up, but is stopped by a firm grip on his skull.

“Look,” he says.

Will squeezes his eyes shut.

“ _Look._ I want you to see what you’ve let me do to you.”

Tentatively, he opens his eyes. The face staring back at him is not the most disgusting thing he’s ever seen, but it’s in the top five. He’s covered in vomit. It’s everywhere—in his hair, in his eyelashes, splattered on his cheeks.

And he let Hannibal do it. Because he asked.

“Oh god,” he whispers.

“You’re filthy,” says Hannibal. “Who else could love someone who would let this happen?”

The words sting, but not as much as they should. The sting because they’re true—Will already knew that he was unlovable—but they’re also halfway to a confession. Who _else._

“Need, ah,” he gasps.

“What do you need?”

“Shower.”

Hannibal smiles, and witnessing this smile is a privilege in the same way witnessing a murder is a privilege. It’t not something most people get to see. “I’d rather you wait,” he says. “I’m not finished. And you’ve just wasted nearly five hundred dollars worth of food.”

“Five…?”

“Including the saffron and gold leaf, the meal totaled almost a thousand. You really plan to wash it down the drain?”

Will stares at him.

“Up. On the floor.”

He doesn’t have much choice in the matter, because Hannibal lifts him off the chair and dumps him on the floor, so he’s face to face with the plate. He gags again, but swallows it.

“What am I…?” He trails off.

“Please finish your sentences, Will.” He crouches to eye level, hard cock bobbing with the motion, still streaked black and white. “I’m not a mind reader.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“What does one do to show gratitude for an extravagant meal? What is the most sincere compliment to the chef?”

He seals his lips.

“A clean plate,” says Hannibal. “Unless you didn’t like it?”

Will shakes his head, eyes wide.

Hannibal frowns. “You didn’t like it?”

“N-no, I mean, I did, but I can’t. I just. Why would anyone—?”

“I think you know exactly why you’re going to eat it, Will.” His voice is a woodwind instrument, gentle and seductive, but the words are percussion—drumming on the inside of Will’s skull, so loud that there’s room for nothing else.

“Please,” he whines, voice cracking. “Please don’t.” _Please don’t tell me why; please don’t say it._ He’ll lose himself if Hannibal says it.

“Because I’m asking you to.”

He looks at Hannibal, looks at the plate. Mind blank, body heavy, he lowers his face to the bowl and takes a tentative lick.

“Good,” Hannibal breathes, giving himself a few languid strokes. “Keep going.”

He can’t do anything but follow directions. He is two selves: the self that does, and the self that observes. Usually they’re in the same place, but under Hannibal’s scrutiny, they’ve drifted apart, and he’s watching himself lap vomit from the dish, watching his humanity circle the drain.

Will the observer, the part of him that can still think, is marveling at the impact of texture, temperature, and presentation in Hannibal’s dishes. It tastes nearly identical the second time around, but it is not the same. He can consume the food twice, but he already consumed the experience.

Will the actor grows bolder. He gulps down the sludge—not to get it over with, because this part of him doesn’t need to get it over with, but because Hannibal is watching, and is giving silent directions.

But he gets ahead of himself. He gags; he spits up almost everything, splattering his face and the carpet, and has to start over. 

Hannibal strokes himself and watches. Then, without fanfare, he closes his eyes and comes onto the plate. His eyes drift dreamily open; there is no trace of disgust in the curl of his lip. A conqueror surveying the civilization he’s razed.

Will doesn’t know how long it takes, but when he’s done—when he’s licked the plate clean, wiped his face and licked his hand clean, licked the spots from the carpet and from Hannibal’s belly—he sits back on his haunches, dazed.

For a moment they simply share the space. Then Will speaks, and the words are not his own. 

“Thank you, Doctor. It was delicious.”

“You’re welcome,” says Hannibal. He catches Will’s slippery chin in his hand, draws him close, and kisses him. The first time.

Shock is happening, somewhere else. Will is pliant and empty as Hannibal bites his lips and tongue-fucks his throat, so violent that he might be trying to bring dinner up again.

But he doesn’t. He releases him; he half-drags Will to the shower and brushes Will’s teeth with his own toothbrush.

Will reintegrates in the warm light of Hannibal’s bedroom, tucked under his heavy duvet, watching him change into his silk pajamas, sharp angles and sweeping curves.

“Hannibal,” he says flatly.

“Mm?”

“What did I do.”

Hannibal buttons his collar, thinks better of it, and slips the first two buttons back through their holes. He joins him under the blanket and tucks Will’s body to his chest.

“You did exactly what I asked,” he says.

And Will realizes, with dawning horror, that this is the cleanest he’s felt in months.

**Author's Note:**

> The Romans didn’t have a special room for vomiting their meals so they could stuff themselves again. The word ‘vomitorium’ means ‘entrance to an amphitheatre.’


End file.
